


Remember the Day

by queenofthorns



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Brotherly Love, Deleted Scenes, Gen, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-13 00:29:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5687593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofthorns/pseuds/queenofthorns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The aftermath of Denethor's visit to Osgiliath (from the expanded film of The Two Towers).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remember the Day

“For Gondor!” Boromir’s voice rings out, as clear as a silver trumpet.

“For Gondor!” The men roar back.

Faramir looks around. Rangers of Ithilien, knights and men-at-arms from Minas Tirith and from the borderlands of Gondor – every man of them would follow Boromir to the very gates of Mordor, and beyond. _Gondor’s Captain_ , Faramir thinks, _the one who does not fail at any task. Best-beloved_. 

But this thought will lead him into dark waters, and he cannot be bitter at his brother's triumph. _Boromir is always happy to see me. He begrudges me nothing._ And so he rallies to tease Boromir, as he always has before, to keep his brother's brilliant smile shining on him a few moments longer. “Good speech! Nice and short.”

“Leaves more time for drinking.” Boromir's grin widens and he shouts, “Break out the ale!” The men answer with another roar of approval that seems to shake the broken stones of Osgiliath. 

“Remember today, little brother,” Boromir says, toasting their victory. “Today, life is good.” There is a sheen on him, brighter than his armor.

Faramir smiles in return, wanting to ask for news of the city, for tidings that are not of war. Then he sees the black-clad figure, a little stooped now, but still proud.

“What?” Boromir asks, the laughter stilled on his lips.

“He is here,” Faramir says. No need to say who. Their father has come to savor this rare triumph in person and to deliver Gondor’s grateful thanks to her favorite son. It was ever so.

“One moment of peace. Can he not give us that?” Boromir says under his breath. 

Faramir catches his own breath; he has never considered that a father’s love, given with such abandon, can be a burden as well as a gift.

***

“A chance for Faramir, captain of Gondor to show his quality. I think not. I trust this mission only to your brother. The one who will not fail me.” 

After Denethor leaves, Faramir excuses himself to see his men fed and quartered in whatever buildings in Osgiliath still have rooms. His own gear is in a building that was either a library or a bookshop, judging by the half-burnt scrolls and scraps of tooled leather that are heaped up in a corner, along with smashed up wooden shelves. Though it is nearly summer, the air within these ruined walls is chill; Faramir lights a fire with what remains of poetry and the ancient lore of his people. Then he begins the tally of the dead and the letters to their families.

 _He died bravely, for Gondor._ Not a lie, exactly, but those short words do not tell of blood bubbling up through men’s lips when they lie impaled by arrows, of horses screaming in agony when fire rains down on them, of choking dust from smashed stones, and how a man can be smiling and joking with his comrades at one moment and the next, lie with his skull crushed, silent forever. _For Gondor_ , Faramir thinks. The White Tree should be limned in red. 

He has written exactly one line when Boromir interrupts him. 

“There you are.” Boromir looks smaller without his armor. Less bold. _Vulnerable_ , Faramir thinks, and immediately wishes he had not. 

Faramir asks, “When do you leave?” He knows they will only have a few scant hours to exchange the news of many months.

“Soon. When the maps are ready.” Boromir says. His cloak hangs slightly open, and Faramir can see the white gleam of the Horn. “I … would rather not go.” 

“I know,” Faramir says. “I heard you say it. But he chose _you_.” He does not intend his words to sound as harsh as they do. 

“Father sometimes ...” There is a note of pleading in Boromir’s voice that Faramir remembers from a hundred other conversations. “He does not mean all that he says.”

“I understand.” Surely the gods pardon lies told out of love, or how would anyone live in this world?

“I cannot always be between you ...” Boromir shakes his head. “You are both so alike.”

“Do you think so?” Faramir says softly. It is not a thought that brings him joy but he is curious to hear more. _He_ has always believed Denethor saw himself reflected in his elder son.

Boromir disappoints him by closing the subject. “No matter,” he says, holding up a bundle and a flask. “I brought food … and wine. I knew you would go to bed hungry else.”

They sit cross-legged by the fire and eat cold meat and stale bread in silence.

“Our mother had a cloak,” Boromir says at length, looking into the flames, as if he can, by his will alone, summon up the images of happier days. “Like stars on a field of midnight… Do you remember?” 

“No,” Faramir lies again. He does not want to think any more of the dead, lest their shadows lie across his brother’s journey like dark omens. 

“Everything changed,” Boromir continues, as if he has not heard Faramir at all. “When she died. Father was not like this before.”

Faramir is silent. He does not remember their father any other way.

“Do you remember when we borrowed his horse?” Boromir asks, suddenly. “The grey, the one that he had from the King of Rohan himself.”

“I remember that _you_ borrowed it,” Faramir says. “And I fell off and broke my arm.”

“And that was still less painful than the beating I took.” Boromir pretends to wince at the memory. 

“So you have always maintained, but pardon me if I doubt you!” 

Boromir gives a snort of laughter, and Faramir is glad of this change in his brother’s mood. Better by far to talk of the petty crimes of childhood than to delve too deep into the troubled past. 

Better yet to speak of why Gondor must ride so swiftly to Rivendell, of what aid Denethor hopes the Elves will provide. But Boromir is silent about the journey that lies before him, and Faramir does not have the heart to remind him of uncertainty and danger ahead. Let Boromir remember their childhood if it brings him joy in their final hours together. _Final for now_ , Faramir thinks. Because Boromir will return to Gondor. He must. 

At dawn, Faramir walks out to bid his brother farewell. It chafes a little at his heart that Gondor’s lord should steal away from Gondor’s lands like a thief, with none but his little brother to wish him safe homecoming.

Boromir checks his saddle girth. “You will defend this land and these people,” he says, tightening a wayward strap. It is not a question. 

“Until you return,” Faramir promises. “To the best of my ability.”

“You are more able than you know,” his brother tells him. Mounted, Boromir pauses to look up at the smoke-grimed flag that floats bravely in the morning breeze. Faramir turns too, and they watch the first rays of the sun pick out the silver of the White Tree. 

“Remember this day, little brother,” Boromir says, with the ghost of a smile, before he wheels his horse and rides out of Osgiliath. 

Faramir watches from the walls until the rider and horse are long gone. Only then does he turn away to begin the defense of Gondor.

**Author's Note:**

> First posted on my LJ in August 2006.


End file.
